August is the humidest month, breeding Muffin tops and dewy sweat on the fuzz
Of upper lips
I don't think very much of September either
No bank holidays until Christmas and the traffic
Is simply beastly
Ever imagine what a poem would have looked like if written in another place or time--or by another person?
In a recent piece in the NYT Book Review, David Orr wrote that if Seamus Heaney’s oeuvre were revealed to have been written by a Portuguese guy living in Toronto, it would entirely disrupt our sense of his poetry.
I'd love to see some new opening stanzas: Sylvia Plath's version of "Daddy" after they've gone to family therapy. e.e. cummings' version of Wordsworth's "Ode: Intimations of Immortality." Langston Hughes writes about dreams deferred, but during this election year.
Or, if you really want a challenge, a poem of Seamus Heaney's as written by a Portuguese guy living in Toronto.
